


The God Who Bleeds

by Spockaholic



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 03:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spockaholic/pseuds/Spockaholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "The Paradise Syndrome," Jim struggles to come to terms with the death of his bride, the loss of his idyllic life on Amerind, and the resurgence of his feelings for Spock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The God Who Bleeds

“Captain?”

A husky voice roused Jim from his reverie. He tore his eyes away from the simple grave marker in front of him and met the coffee colored gaze of his First Officer. He had not heard the man's approach; how long had Spock been watching him?

“Captain—Jim—I suggest that we not delay our return to the Enterprise any further.” His taciturn features softened. “It is time to go home.”

A muscle near Jim's lip twitched.

“Home. Right.”

His eyes returned to the freshly dug grave that had captured his attention for the last hour. Laughing eyes and onyx black hair danced before his mind. She had been his home. His throat constricted.

“Jim.”

Jim smirked.

“Call me Kirok.”

“That is not your name.”

Jim eyes flashed.

“It was my name.”

Before he had shown up.

Spock shut his eyes, and rearranged his features into the usual impassive mask.

“Captain.” His voice was clipped. “I recognize that humans have an inherent, emotional need to mourn their dead. However, necessity dictates that we return to the ship, as we have lost much time.”

Jim said nothing.

“I am compelled to remind you that as captain, you have a responsibility to see to the well-being of your crew. They will be gratified to see their commanding officer again.”

Jim scowled and raked a hand through his hair.

“Find Bones. Meet me back here in five minutes.”

Spock nodded his consent and turned to leave. Jim watched the Vulcan's departure, vaguely noting the shuffling steps and slouched shoulders—definitely not his usual efficient grace. Had Spock gotten lazy during the Captain's absence? The thought was almost enough to amuse him. Almost.

A slight breeze stirred, gently sweeping over his face and ruffling through his hair. He closed his eyes, inhaling the tang of the pine trees surrounding him. How many times in the last two months had he repeated this ritual—content to simply sit cross-legged on the forest floor, absorbing the tranquility around him? Each time he did, his heart would pulse with gratitude, his joy unmatched, save for the moments when a pair of slender arms would encircle him.

 _Each time your arms hold me is as joyous as the first._

For weeks his mind had been enshrouded in a dense fog, the haze of his amnesia shrouding the memories attached to his knowledge and instincts. The days that had followed his stumbling out of the temple/asteroid deflector were bewildering and occasionally frustrating, but Miramanee's embrace had repeatedly confirmed the only two things he really needed to know: he was Kirok and he was home.

No longer.

Less than two minutes and his new life, forged ot of two months of trial, error and love, melted away like slag beneath the heat of a Vulcan mind.

He could still feel the pulsing aftereffects of the meld in his temples, as if Spock's slender fingers were still pressing into his skin. An echo of Spock's words still lingered in his skull:

 _Our minds are one._

Leave it to Spock to be filling his head, even as he sat at the grave of his newly dead wife.

He traced his fingertips along the soft mound of earth beside him, wishing his touch could penetrate both dirt and death and reach the still form that lay beneath. His mouth opened and he tried to form words of love and benediction—a fitting eulogy for his bride—but all he could manage was a broken apology.

There was too much to be sorry for.

The sound of feet scraping along the forest path alerted him to the return of his friends. Jim rose to his feet, wincing as his rock-battered body screamed in protests of pain. Salish and the rest of the mob had certainly been thorough enough in stripping him of his deity. McCoy and Spock took their accustomed places at his side.

“Are you ready, Jim?”

The compassion in Doctor McCoy's blue gaze threatened to peel away his paper-thin layer of composure.

“No.”

McCoy didn't respond. Instead, he clasped a strong hand on Jim's shoulder, sending a small ripple of comfort and friendship through him. Jim managed a weak smile, grateful for the older man's support.

 

Instinctively he glanced over at Spock—body erect, eyes forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back—business as usual for the Vulcan sentinel. You would think he was only returning from a routine planetary survey. Hard to believe this angular, stoic face was the one that had harrowed his dreams for weeks on end.

Hard to believe this angular, stoic face was the one that had harrowed his dreams for years.

He flipped his communicator open.

“Kirk to Enterprise. Three to beam up, Scotty.”

“Aye sir.”

Jim closed his eyes.

Goodbye, Miramanee.

The familiar tingle of dematerialization enveloped him and Kirk/Kirok disappeared from the planet's surface.

***

 _“Kirok...”_

 _Miramanee's voice beckoned. He was running—faster than he he had ever run before, yet she continued to elude him, her moccasined footfalls barely connecting with the ground._

 _“You have to be faster if you wish to catch me!”_

 _Kirok laughed in exhultion and intensified his pace. Sweat dripped down his brow, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision. His bride was hardly more than a flash of a fawn-colored dress amongst the trees._

 _“You have to stop sometime, Miramanee!” Kirok called out, “I can't run forever!”_

 _“Not much of a god, are you?”_

 _Kirok stopped to reclaim some of the breath that had deserted him._

 _“Aren't there...other things we could be doing instead of playing chase?”_

 _The sound of giggling trickled through the trees. A light finger tapped him on his shoulder. He spun around, blinking in confusion at his bride, who was supposed to have been ahead of him. Miramanee smiled coyly at him._

 _“What other things do you desire?”_

 _Kirok gripped her gently by the shoulders, pulling her closer. He gazed intentionally into her sorrel-colored eyes._

 _“You.”_

 _“How much do you desire me?”_

 _Kirok ran a finger up and down her arm, toying with the tassels on her sleeve._

 _“More than anything”_

 _“More than anyone?”_

 _He enfolded her in his arms, inhaling the familiar scent of woodsmoke that clung to her hair._

 _“There is no one else in my heart or mind.”_

 _Although he could not see her face, he could feel the muscles of her cheeks lifting into a smile against his bare chest._

 _“Prove it.”_

 _Miramanee slid her hands up his back and interlocked her fingers at the back of his neck. She stood on her tiptoes, tilting her chin towards his mouth._

 _“Show me there is no one else.”_

 _Kirok closed the gap between their lips._

 _The kiss was light and sweet, a slight, unpretentious pressing of two mouths. A surge of affection swelled up inside Kirok. He drew back, anxious to search her face and find the open, almost reverent adoration that lit her features whenever she looked at him._

 _Instead, he saw stony detatchment._

 _Kirok blinked in confusion._

 _“Miramanee?”_

 _His only response was an arched eyebrow._

 _He stepped toward her again, and wrapped his arms around her slender waist. The body heat emanating from her was surprising. And compelling. He brought his mouth to hers in a second kiss, increasing the pressure of his lips on hers._

 _She didn't move. Didn't respond._

 _His pulse quickened. Strange how her behaviour was affecting him. Normally such passive resistance would sound the death knell for his passion, but it only served to inflame him further. He pressed his body closer, gripping the back of her head. He would MAKE her respond. His tongue darted between her lips. A tiny hand traveled up the small of his back in response, gliding along his spine and up his neck until coming to rest on the top of his head. Her fingers spread apart, lightly clamping his temples. Disengaging from the kiss, she pressed her lips to his earlobe and whispered,_

 _“Our minds are one.”_

 _The voice did not belong to a woman._

 _Kirok's eyes flew open. It wasn't Miramanee!_

 _Instead of his nubile, bronze-skinned wife stood a tall, sallow-looking man in strange clothing—similar to the clothes he had worn after his awakening at the temple. Clearly he was not one of The People; his pointed ears and slanted eyebrows made that much obvious._

 _A trickster spirit? A god?_

 _The being stood motionless before him, waiting. For what? Although his bone-pale face was set in neutral lines, there was something about the dark, steady gaze that unsettled him. Challenged him. Stupidly, he raised his fists. Amusement flickered in the somber eyes. The being spoke, his voice barely above a whisper._

 _“Jim.”_

 _The strange word pulled at some primordial instinct within him._

 _And suddenly, Kirok was kissing the tall stranger as if his life depended on it._

 _Shock. Fear. Desire. Urgency. The whirlwhind of emotions threatened to blow him into oblivion—all he could do was cling to this stranger with every last fiber of strength in his possession. No longer under his mind's command, his body danced franticly to the song his blood cried within him—hands grasping, legs entwining, lips demmanding. The man matched him, kiss for kiss, answering his need with a fervor of his own, until Kirok couldn't tell when his own body ended and the other's began. By all rights Kirok knew that he should not be having this reaction, but he could not bring himself to care. The absurdity of the situation was easily eclipsed by the rightness of it._

 _Until the first stone collided with his flesh._

 _“Kirok!”_

 _They were surrounded. Salish, the Elder, every man woman and child from the tribe—all holding rocks in their raised fists._

 _“You are no god!” Salish roared. Triumph blazed in his eyes._

 _Kirok raised his arms in front of his face to deflect another stone. He heard a sharp intake of breath beside him. The man with pointed ears buckled slightly as a rock collided with his kneecap. Rocks and accusations rained down on them, pelting them on all sides. The two men crumpled to the ground._

 _“Kirok!” A woman's voice rose above the din. Kirok raised his face. Miramanee! She stood slightly apart from the crowd, her mouth trembling. Tears streaked her face._

 _“You said there was no one else! No one else in your heart and mind!”_

 _Feebly, Kirok stretched an arm toward her. She took a step backwards, shaking her head wildly._

 _“You lied!”_

 _Kirok struggled to get to his feet. A hand gripped his wrist. The man with ponted ears pulled him back to the ground with surprising strength. Feebly, Kirok reached for his wife, only to have his hand caught in a tight grip. The man with the pointed ears leaned over Kirok's face._

 _“Our minds are one.” he whispered as his lips descended upon him._

 _Miramanee's anguished sob ripped through the forest._

 _And Jim bolted upward in his bed._

***

With a shaking hand, Jim brought the glass tumbler to his lips and drained the last of the Saurian brandy. It coated his gut with a feeble warmth that did nothing to dispel the coldness surrounding him; a bonfire in a blizzard. He glanced at the bottle on his nightstand. One more glassfull and he would have to hit Bones up for a new nighttime companion. Provided, of course, that it was worth sitting through a ten minute lecture on the dangers of problem drinking, complete with scowls galore and an impressive repetoire of cuss words.

Then again, anything would be worth the price of being able to forget. If only he could forget.

Instead, it seemed like anything and everything he came into contact with only caused him to remember, if only because of the contrasts they generated. His snug, synthetic uniform made him think of the loose, supple buckskin he had worn. His sterile, utilitarian captain's quarters brought to mind the earthy, homepun lodge he had slept in. His relentless dreams mocked him each night in their contempt for his relentless reality.

And of course—the embodiment of contrasts—there was Spock. Always Spock.

Funny how easily the dignified, unsmiling Spock could summon the memory of his laughing, down-to-earth bride.

In the week since their departure from Amerind, he had seen little of the Vulcan, save for their corresponding shifts on the bridge. Their conversation was minimal, consisting only of brief instructions and dull statistics. Obviously Spock had ever been accused of being Mr. Jovial, but his recent delayed, manner of responding to commands certainly did not invite further dialogue. Not to mention his all-around pokiness; watching him shuffling around the bridge these days was like watching a man moving underwater. Occasionally Jim wondered if this was another one of those weird Vulcan things that his race did not speak of to outworlders—some new condition that would end in detours or death attempts—but each time he felt that pang of worry he squelched it. The last thing he needed was to devote even more time to brooding over his First Officer. Especially considering that his wife was barely decomposing in the dirt.

 _Our minds are one._

The words were grafted into his psyche. Damn him.

He grabbed the bottle, poured it, and raised his glass in a mock toast to the emptiness in the room.

***

The doorway to Spock's quarters opened with a familliar hiss/squeal. Jim stumbled into the heated room and fixed his eyes on the Vulcan sitting comtemplatively at his computer.

Spock rubbed his eyes and straightened in his seat.

“Is there something I can help you with, Captain?”

Jim grinned cloyingly.

“Yes, Mr. Spock, there is something you can help me with. A big favor, actually.” He shuffled over to the desk and leaned against it.

“I am resigning my commission.”

A visible flinch registered on the his friend's face. Jim felt a tiny thrill of sastsfaction.

“Captain?”

He held up a hand to forestall any questions his First Officer would have.

“You will assume command of the Enterprise, after you carry out my final instructions.”

An upswept eyebrow levitated towards the perfect fringe of Spock's hair.. A surge of affection at the familiar expression tugged at Jim's resolve. He gritted his teeth, fortifying himself against the emotions that lurked just behind the alcohol-laced bravado.

“Spock, I want you to reverse the effects of your mind-meld. Set a return course for Amerind and let me stay. Give me back my old life.”

Spock regarded him in silence. An undiscernable expression flickered in his eyes. Jim leaned forward, gripping the edges of the desk.

“Bring Kirok back.”

Spock raised his eyes blandly.

“I am not following you, Captain.”

“Bullshit.” Jim forced a long breath in and out of his lungs. Would that he could have even a sliver of the alien's composure.

“You're a Vulcan—you can affect the thoughts of others. If you were able to restore my memory, then surely you could alter it. Make me forget again.” His voice faltered. “Spock, please. Let me be Kirok. I need to be Kirok”

“Captain, there is no such person. There never was a Kirok.”

A heavy fist slammed down on the desk.

“I was Kirok!”

The tempered gaze did not waver.

“That is incorrect, Captain,” Spock said patiently, “You have always been James Kirk—even on Amerind. Kirok is nothing more than a mispronunciation of your last name.”

Jim shook his head.

“I was different on Amerind. ”

“Negative. Your experience on Amerind did not alter the intrinsic properties of your personality. You were essentially the same person, the only variable being that you were not in posession of your memories.” Spock's brow furrowed slightly. “You were incomplete.”

Jim put a hand to his throbbing head, willing his body to cease the shaking which had seized him. He glared at the saturnine countenance across the desk, his mind dredging up some of Bones' favorite epithets. Poiny-eared hobbgoblin. Overgrown elf. Science Officer Satan. How the hell had he believed that there was anything other than statistics and equations in that clinical mind? His hand contracted into a fist.

“Reverse the mind-meld. Give me my life back, Spock...that is an order!”

Slowly, Spock rose from his chair. For an instant, he appeared to falter, bracing himself on the desk. A tiny dart of concern at the uncharacteristic clumsiness jabbed at Jim's rage. He forced it away. Spock crossed over to the other side of the desk, and stood at his side, his head lowered. When he spoke, his voice was deep and subdued.

“I am afraid I cannot comply.”

Jim's eyes narrowed.

“Why the hell not?” he growled. A slight spasm appeared in the corner of the Vulcan's jaw.

“You have recently undergone a great trauma. Your thoughts and emotions have been adversely affected. You are not issuing a rational command.” A corner of his mouth tipped slightly. “You are also currently inebriated.”

He inched a little closer to Jim's side, bringing their arms into contact. His hand was trembling slightly. Jim shut his eyes, trying to ignore the body heat that seeped through the sleeve of Spock's uniform. He tried not to remember all the times he had surreptitiously stood closer than necessary to the man, just to bask in that subtle warmth. His own personal sauna.

“Jim.”

 _Dammit, Spock, don't do this to me._

“Is there nothing aboard the Enterprise that would compell you to stay?”

Was it just the brandy getting to him, or did he really hear that plaintive tone in Spock's voice?

“Careful, Mr. Spock—you're starting to sound sentimental.”

Spock bristled.

“I can assure you, Captain, any...sentiments you may perceive from me are completely irrelevant to the situation.”

Jim smiled bitterly.

“My apologies. I forgot that feelings mean nothing to you.”

Spock did not reply. Jim drove the nail in further.

“You certainly didn't think about my feelings when you forced that meld on me.”

A long pause.

“No, Captain, I did not. I was thinking about the giant asteroid that was about to collide with the planet should you fail to regain your memory. ”

He had him there. Damn that Vulcan logic.

“I was happy on Amerind. I had a wife.” he said softly.

A wife who could laugh and frolick with him. A wife who could freely give and receive affection without considering it beneath her dignity. A wife whose every word and gesture toward him had been saturated with adoration.

Someone he could have spent the rest of his life with, despite the fact that she was not Spock.

“Your wife is dead. Returning to Amerind and resuming your false identity will not change that.”

Jim ignored him.

“I loved her.”

Spock gazed at him levelly.

“Had you met her under proper circumstances, you would not have.”

Too much!

Jim's fist shot out as if it were spring loaded, connecting loudly with the Vulcan's face. Spock staggered backward from the blow.

“Spare me your analysis, Mr. Spock; you cannot compute what love is.”

Spock briefly raised a hand to his stricken mouth and closed his eyes. An emerald pool of blood surfaced from the gash in his lower lip. The sight of his best friend's lifeforce, drawn by his own hand, stabbed Jim like a hypospray, injecting him with shame.

An echo of Salish's mocking words to him sounded in his head.

 _Behold the god who bleeds._

Jim looked away, his wrath drained. An infinity of silence stretched between the two men. When Spock finally opened his eyes, they were gleaming softly, the Vulcan shutters of repression completely lifted. He stepped towards his captain, arm extended.. His middle and index finger brushed the side of Jim's face.

“That is...incorrect, Jim.” he murmured.

His legs gave way beneath him and he sank to the floor.

***

“I swear, if that damn fool Vulcan doesn't stop trying to get himself killed, I will forget about my medical oaths and finish the job myself!”

Jim barely heard the doctor's words; his eyes were transfixed on the unconscious man on the floor. He stared intently at Spock's motionless eyelids, as if he could make them flutter apart open by the sheer force of his will. The blood on his lip had dried. He forced himself to look anywhere but there.

“Will he be alright, Bones? I hit him pretty hard.”

Kneeling on the other side of theVulcan, Bones made a sound that was a cross between a chuckle and a snort.

“The man's survived having his brain removed, for crying out loud! No offense to your right hook, but I don't think he's gonna meet his end because of some drunken sucker punch.” The scowl lines on his face intensified. “This little swooning fit has been a long time coming.” he muttered.

“What is it? What's wrong with him?”

Bones sighed.

“Exhaustion, Jim—complete exhauston. Apparently your brilliant Vulcan scientist theorized that he had evolved beyond the need for proper food and rest—ten weeks' worth, as a matter of fact.” He fixed his patient with a baleful eye. “Damned moron,” he added, just for good measure.

Jim blinked in confusion. As long as he had known him, Spock's eating and sleeping rituals were as consistent and methodical as, well, everything else Spock did. This wasn't like him at all.

“Why?”

Bones fixed him with the full intensity of his slate blue eyes. Jim squirmed beneath their scrutiny.

“Do you really need to ask that?”

Jim looked away. The doctor's crusty expression softened a little.

“You've gone through a hell of a time, Jim—no one should have to experience that kind of pain. But has it ever occurred to you that maybe someone else has...for over two months?”

Jim looked incrdulously at the unconscious Vulcan—stately and dignified, even in sleep. He shook his head.

“I saw him, Bones—he's been as detatched and indifferent as always.”

The doctor rolled his eyes.

“Well, there's a new entry for the medical log...apparently not giving a damn causes Vulcan hybrids to stop eating and sleeping for months on end! And I suppose they just crumple into heaps on their bedroom floors because the overload of indifference causes their internal computers to crash? Good God, Jim!”

He opened and closed his mouth several times in a futile effort to prodce a counter-argument.

“Jim.” The doctor's voice was surprisingly gentle. “Who were you trying to see when you looked at him—Spock, or your dead wife?”

Wham. Bones' words slammed into his chest—blunt and unrelenting—like the rocks that had battered his body. He stared dumbly at his friend. McCoy pressed on.

“Miramanee is gone, Jim. The life you had with her, as wonderful as it may have been, is gone. But Spock!” he gestured at the Vulcan. “He's still here—he's always been here—either joined at your hip or chasing asteroids and nearly killing himself for you. Go ahead and grieve for what you don't have, but don't let it cheapen what you do have.”

Jim bit down on the inside of his cheek in a vain attempt to distract himself from the feelings that were inflating inside him. He gazed down at the alabaster face of his First Officer, remembering his life with Miramanee. Often, after waking from yet another of those cryptic dreams about the “strange lodge which moves through the sky,” he woud stare into his sleeping wife's face, willing himself to absorb her peacefulness. Eventually his heart would cease its pounding and he would drift back into slumber, lulled by the warmth of the fire that crackled in the centre of the Earth Lodge, the fragments of his dream dispersed into oblivion.

But no matter how hard he tried, he could never extinguish the face that blazed behind the fog of his memories. The face that called to him. Demanded of him. Dominated him.

The face whose mouth was now coated with the blood he had drawn.

 _Our minds are one._

Bones shifted restlessly beside him.

“Alright Jim, stand back, I'm gonna wake Sleeping Brainy here.”

He pulled out one of his ubiquitous hypos and inserted it into Spock's arm. The Vulcan's eyelids twitched a few times, then parted. He glanced up at Bones.

“Doctor,” he greeted casually, as if passing out and waking up to find the ship's chief medical officer looming above him with a hypospray and a scowl was the most natural occurrence in the world. Jim felt a ghost of a smile tug at the corners of his lips in spite of himsef. Bones rolled his eyes and helped the science officer to his feet.

“Up and at em', Sunshine; you and me are taking a little trip to sickbay, and you better pray to your Vulcan deities that I don't kill you before we get there.”

“Doctor, Vulcans have no deities.” Spock replied mildly.

“Then I suggest you get religious fast, Spock!” Bones hissed. He ushered the groggy Vulcan out the door, leaving Jim behind with his thoughts.

 

***

Gazing at the scant furnishings in Spock's quarters, Jim couldn't help but note the contrast between the standardized austerity of the room itself and the simple elegance of the Vulcan artifacts that adorned it. Pragmatic but genteel. How very Spock-like. His eyes fell on the scarlet curtain that cascaded down the wall above the narrow bed. A smile rippled on his lips as he recalled teasing his friend about his taste in decor.

“Why Mr. Spock, are you aware that red is the color of love and passion? Fascinating choice for a man of logic, wouldn't you think?”

“Captain, the practice of associating certain colors with emotions is strictly a human practice...and an illogical one at that,” Spock had sniffed, fixing him with the Eyebrow of Reproach. “I was merely in need of some fabric to cover the hole left behind by the previous tenant. Being that this fabric happened to be the least expensive option available at the time, it was, of course, the most rational choice.”

Wishing to avoid seeing the Vulcan equivalent of a snit, Jim had spared him the embarrassment of pointing out that the most rational choice would have been to ask the maintenance crew to patch the hole up.

He chuckled aloud at the memory. The sound seemed so out of place in the Vulcan's bedquarters, like a ribald joke in a monastary. He wondered how often laughter had been housed in this room since it had become occupied by Spock. Probably never, aside from the one-sided mirth Jim supplied during his visits.

Just another of the many differences between Spock and Miramanee...laughing had been as natural as breathing for her.

Miramanee.

That familiar serpent of anguish coiled around his heart once again, squeezing hard. He shut his eyes.

“I loved her!”

“Had you met her under proper circumstances, you would not have.”

His conversation with Spock began a frenzied orbit in his brain, whirling round and round, like a satellite out of control. He thought of his smiling, raven-haired bride, thought of the two months of paradise he had shared with her. An ember of his former rage flickered inside him. He wouldn't have loved her? Impossible!

...really?

He could almost see the slanted eyebrow of his First Officer tilting in challenge.

“Damn you, Spock.” he whispered.

The tremors were starting up again. Jim gritted his teeth, reeling against the accompanying wave of dizziness that crashed into his body. As if by a will other than his own, he found himself staggering over to the immaculately made bed. He sank helplessly onto the mattress.

What the hell am I doing?

A fine figure he must cut right now—Captain Kirk of the legendary U.S.S. Enterprise, curled up like an abandoned puppy on his First Officer's bed. His cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Tremors or no tremors, any other starship captain in his right mind would have returned to his own quarters to recouperate, or at least have opted to sit at the desk instead.

So why couldn't he bring himself to leave?

Languishing in the bed of the man he had just struck, shaking from a coldness that even the sweltering, Vulcan-suited room temperature couldn't touch—just another of the many contradictions to be found in this room.

Strange to think that his was the first body to occupy this bed in over two months. While he had been on Amerind, entwined in the arms of his wife during the nights, Spock had been obsessively poring over alien symbols, and calculating asteriod trajectories, shunning sleep until he could be reunited with his captain. What thoughts had inhabited that labrynthine mind during those long hours of the evening? Those liquid brown eyes had stared so bleakly at him just before his collapse—were they the end product of the last ten weeks?

He closed his eyes and nestled his body into the bed, as if by burrowing in as far as he could, he could somehow touch the memory of the last time Spock had lain there—unguarded and vulnerable only in sleep. His empty arms ached—but whether the ache was for a self-contained scientist he had never held or a sweet-faced priestess he would never hold again, or both—he did not know. Maybe it didn't even matter.

***

 _The sound of footsteps crashed through the pine trees, dissipating the hush of the forest. Jim was running—faster than he had ever ran before—but his quarry continued to elude him. He could feel a bubble of frustration swelling inside him, threatening to burst, but he forced it to deflate, knowing that his emotions would not give aid to his purpose. He had been searching for so long now—he must NOT surrender. He continue his pursuit on legs that felt like they had boulders strapped to them, stumbling over tree roots, plodding endlessly, until at least—exhausted and perspiring—he made his way into a clearing._

 _In the centre of the clearing stood the object of his pursuit: bathed in sunlight, his upturned face smiling at the sky. Dressed in a fringed tunic made from cured animal hide, he was resplendent in the serenity and intelligence that seemed to radiate from his very skin._

 _Jim let out the breath he had not realized he'd been holding. Relief and joy swept over him in unprecidented amounts, threatening to undo him in their extremity. He drew himself up to his full height and clasped his hands behind his back, his only defense against the onslaught of emotion that wanted to drive him to his knees. He closed his eyes briefly and permitted himself one whispered outburst:_

 _“T'hy'la.”_

 _He strode forward to join the other. Startled by the sound his approach, the other turned to face him. The hazel eyes sparked with joy for an instant, causing Jim's heart to leap, then dimmed, as if he had been expecting to see someone else. The wide, drowsy smile on the man's face morphed slowly into a grimace. He took a step backward._

 _“I am Kirok,” he declared, eying him warily._

 _Incorrect._

 _Jim advanced slowly toward the man, his hand slightly extended. Frozen in place, the man could only stare at him through narrowed eyes. Jim could feel his chest tighten at the hostility on the other's face. “Do not look at me like that,” he longed to plead. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead of his desired words, he heard a calm and measured voice say,_

 _“You are James Kirk.”_

 _The other shook his head vehemently._

 _“I am Kirok,” he insisted._

 _Incorrect._

 _He moved in closer. He could feel the man's fear and confusion radiating from him in waves—it sliced through his telepathic barriers as if they were non-existent. To think that HE was the cause of this turmoil...he who wanted nothing more than to gather this beautiful human into his arms, feel the coolness of that bronzed skin against his own, and whisper words that must not be spoken..._

 _“Our minds are one.” The crispness in his voice did nothing to betray the trembling in his body. His arms shot out in front of him, grasping the human firmly._

 _He had the sickening mental image of tearing the wings off a butterfly._

 _“I AM KIROK!”_

 _The human thrashed wildly against his grasp. The whites of the human's eyes were clearly visible, the chords of his neck stretched to the limit. He twisted his body in desperation to free himself from the grip of the long, tapered fingers that had seized him._

 _“Our minds are one.”_

 _Forgive me, T'hy'la._

 _He dug his fingertips into the meld points on the human's face. The human howled as though scalded by the contact. The sound tore through his very soul..._

And Jim's eyes fluttered open.

He muttered a curse and clenched his jaw against the disorientation that was assailing his senses. After closing and re-opening his eyes several times and couning to five in his head, the ceiling ceased its erratic spinning just in time for him to remember that he was not in his own bed.

Nor was he alone.

Perched like a beautiful, wingless gargoyle at the foot of the bed, Spock was watching him intently.

***

 

“Spock?” Jim sat up abruptly and rubbed his bleary eyes. “How long have you been here?”

“Two hours and seventeen minutes.” Spock replied. Jim ran a hand through his hair and averted his face, hoping the Vulcan would not note the decidedly red tinge that was bound to be on his cheeks.

“Dammit, Spock, I'm sorry...” he began feebly, but Spock cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“An apology is not necessary, Captain.”

“You could've woken me, you know,”

Now it was Spock's turn to avert his face.

“I had no wish to disturb your rest.” His voice was hardly more than a whisper.

This, coming from the man who hadn't slept in two months.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a severe martyr complex?” Jim glared at his friend in mock reproach. An amused twitch surfaced on the Vulcan's lips.

“I believe the doctor has expressed that opinion on several occasions.” A hint of a twinkle emerged from the depths of Spock's eyes. Jim felt his breath catch in his throat. There once had been a time when a single half-smirk from his First Officer had been worth a hundred belly laughs from the entire crew. How long had it been since he'd seen that look?

Gripped with a sudden need for nearness, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sidled down the mattress to sit beside his friend. Realistically, he knew that he needn't sit so close to the man, that there was plenty of room for the both of them without the invasion of personal space, but once again, he could not bring himself to care. In the space of an evening he had insulted Spock, demanded from him, punched him and then slept in his bed like some kind of pervert with a fetish—why stop now when he was so obviously on a roll?

They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity—neither looking at the other, both at a loss for words, but not feeling any particular urge to converse. For Jim, it was more than enough to just enjoy the warmth of Spock's arm pressed beside his—the most contact he'd had with another body since Miramanee. With great difficulty he resisted the urge to lean his head against the Vulcan's shoulder.

Eventually he allowed his common sense to gain the upper hand in the battle against his instincts and he shifted away.

“I should probably leave you to your rest.” He could've kicked himself for the way his voice croaked. “You must be exhausted.” Brilliant observation.

“Yes.”

Jim's eyes widened at the admission. He'd fully expected Spock to launch into some kind of discourse about the Vulcan race and their superior ability to resist fatigue; the fact that he didn't was as much (if not more) alarming than his earlier collapse. He lifted his head and forced himself to look—really look—at his friend.

It was almost like looking at a poorly rendered caricature of the real Spock. There were hollows under the dark eyes that hadn't been there before, as well as an added waxiness to his already pallid complexion. Not to mention the way his uniform sat on his lank frame. Prior to Amerind, Jim had always admired the way the powder blue shirt clung to all the right contours of Spock's torso; now there was a decided bagginess to the fabric.

How had he not noticed this before?

“Spock, can I just ask you one question?”

Spock regarded him blandly and nodded his assent.

“Why would you do this to yourself?”

The look Spock gave him was reminiscent of the looks he reserved for their most deadlocked of chess games.

“Captain, the task of destroying the asteroid...”

Jim shook his head.

“Nice try, Spock. Now how 'bout you give me the real reason?”

“There was limited time to decipher the...”

“You're gonna have to do better than that.”

“I had the responsibility to calculate...”

Jim threw his hands in the air.

“The truth, Spock!” His face softened “Please.”

Spock dropped his hands onto his lap in defeat. He leaned forward as if crushed under an invisible weight, his head bowed so low that Jim could see a perfect halo of reflected light on the top of his black-capped head.

“Captain.” His voice was rough. “You were stranded on a planet on the verge of annihilation. Even if I had desired to rest, it would have been...impossible.”

What it must have cost for him to admit this. How very un-Spock-like. The only thing he could do to repay his friend for his self-mutiny was to help restore the inner-Vulcan. With great effort, Jim summoned his old cocky grin.

“But Mr. Spock, surely you know that such behavior is quite illogical.”

Spock glanced up at him wearily.

“I am aware of that.” he muttered.

“One would even go so far as to say that you were exhibiting an unprecedented display of emotionalism.”

For the first time in his life, Jim heard the Vulcan beside him heave a loud sigh. He threw him a baleful look.

“Captain, I am fatigued. My serotonin levels and mental shields have been severely compromised, and I wish to repair them as soon as possible, so unless you are not entirely finished with sleeping in my bed or needlessly insulting me...”

Welcome back, Mister Spock!

Jim couldn't help it. Like an uncorked bottle of Kandora champagne, the laughter spilled forth from inside him, ringing loudly throughout the Vulcan bedquarters. Wracking his gut with pain and causing his shoulders to convulse violently, it refused to cease. Through teary eyes, he could see his First Officer staring at him with something close to horror on his face—a look that even a punch to the mouth had failed to produce—and it only amplified his mirth. Several times he attempted to speak, only to have his words cut off by a persistent barrage of giggles. Finally he resigned himself to doubling over in hysterics while the long-suffering Spock waited for him to finish.

Finally he sat up and clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder.

“Thank you.” he said simply.

Spock blinked in confusion.

“I fail to see what I have done that merits your gratitude.”

Jim widened his smile and squeezed the shoulder lightly.

“You're you, Spock; that's more than enough.”

Spock shook his head and Jim could see the faintest hint of a smirk lurking on the sides of his lips.

“Captain, at the risk of shattering whatever delusions you are presently entertaining about me, it would appear that it is still you who is the paragon of...emotionalism.”

“So I'm emotional. Indulge me.” Jim replied flippantly.

Spock covered the hand on his shoulder with his own.

“I was under the impression that I already do.” he murmured, his hand contracting gently around Jim's fingers. Emboldened by the touch, Jim inched a little closer to his side.

“Can I ask you just one more question before I leave?” He pressed on before Spock could have a chance to reply.

“Why haven't you been sleeping since I returned?”

The muscles in Spock's face visibly tightened. His gaze drifted to the floor.

“That is...somewhat difficult to explain.”

This, coming from one of the greatest minds in Starfleet's history. Jim smiled reassuringly.

“Try me.”

Releasing his grip on Jim's hand, Spock folded his arms tightly across the his chest. When he spoke, his voice was once again the voice of a dignified Vulcan Science Officer.

“I believe it is related to the mind fusion I shared with you while on Amerind.” He paused, and Jim saw a brief flicker of chagrin cross over his face before he shifted his features back into Vulcan-mode.

“Although there are always risks involved with performing a mind meld, they can be amplified if it is initiated under less-than-ideal conditions. When we were reunited at the obelisk, I was not in possession of my standard mental faculties, due to my having abstained from sleep for such an extended period of time—resulting in my experiencing a heightened case of emotional transference.”

He waited in silence while Jim consulted his internal First Officer translation database.

“So you've been experiencing human emotions this past week? My emotions?”

Spock nodded solemnly.

“They have persisted much longer than I had initially expected,” he admitted. “I have noticed that they are most potent when I am in direct contact with you.”

Jim stared at the Vulcan in wonder. To think, the one person he'd deemed least capable of understanding his feelings not only undrstood them, but had been living them for the last week! All the turmoil, all the sorrow, all the impotent, white-hot rage, on top of his own fatigue...

“Spock my friend, you've got one hell of a poker face.”

Spock fixed him with a wry look but said nothing.

For the first time since his return to the Enterprise Jim felt a wave of pity for someone other than himself. While he had been provided with sympathetic glances, pats on the shoulder and brandy at every turn, his closest friend had been silently bearing up under a nearly identical yoke, unnoticed by all save for McCoy—the last person he would even want to have noticed. Unable to let himself be perceived by his crew-mates as anything “less than Vulcan” but clearly feeling the full extent of another's humanity, having ransomed Jim's identity at the cost of his own...

And yet, even though it could all go away with enough rest, he would still choose to sit at the foot of his own bed and watch Jim sleep in his place.

All this from the man he'd accused of being unable to compute what love is.

 _Our minds are one._

A belated thought occurred to him: what if some of Spock's emotional essence had been inadvertently transferred to him? Given the Vulcan's mental and emotional state at the time of the meld, was it conceivable that some of his own feelings may have slipped through his damaged telepathic barriers, masquerading as belonging to Jim? The frustration, the irritablility, the persistent, inexplicable need to blame Spock...

The dream from which he had just awoken: charged with love and despair and guilt.

 _Our minds are one._

This time, Jim didn't hesitate; he nestled his head into the crook between Spock's neck and shoulder. Spock flinched.

“...Captain?” His voice was tinged with uncertainty.

“Please, Spock. I'm emotional. Indulge me.”

Spock did not reply. For the longest time, he sat frozen beside Jim, his muscles tensed, as if he were about to spring to his feet at any second. Jim held his breath, half-afraid that the slightest motion on his part would cause the other man to bolt. On some level he knew that it was in his friend's best interest to be left to his rest, but once again, the same insanity which had propelled him to recline on the Vulcan's bed was coursing through him, forbidding him to pry his head away from the warmth of Spock's shoulder. In defiance against all reason, he nestled his cheek in even further.

As if in response to this small action, the muscles in Spock's body relaxed. A tentative arm slid across Jim's back and curved around his torso, drawing him closer.

“Jim.” Spock's resonant voice vibrated in the ear that was pressed against him. “It is very gratifying to have you aboard the Enterprise again.” He paused and Jim could feel the slight tremor that coursed through the Vulcan's body.

“Your absence was...most conspicuous.”

Jim chuckled.

“There's no need to be so sappy, Mr. Spock—you're embarrassing me.” he teased.

Spock blanched.

“My apologies, Captain, I did not intend...”

Laughing, Jim slung his arms around Spock's shoulders and hugged him tightly, effectively shutting off the rest of his sentence. A fraction of a second later, Spock reciprocated the embrace, muttering something into his hair that involved the usage of the word, “illogical.” He smiled at the familiar word, remembering some of the times he had deliberately goaded Spock into saying it, just so he could enjoy his friend in all his “Spock-ness.” Had he really gone two months without his comaraderie? No wonder his subconscious had resorted to sending the Vulcan to his side in dreams!

Speaking of dreams...

Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that as easy as it would be to linger in Spock's (surprisingly) accomodating arms, he really did owe it to him to let him sleep, or at least try to. Not that he was particularly looking forward to the emptiness that awaited him in his own bed. Reluctantly he peeled himself away from Spock's grasp and rose to his feet.

“Good night, Spock.” he said hoarsely, turning to leave.

A warm hand grasped his wrist.

“Is something wrong?”

Instead of replying, Spock clasped his hand between his palms.

“Spock?”

“Captain—Jim. I...” his voice trailed off and he looked up at him helplessly. Jim could see the silent pleading on his face: Don't make me say it. Not that he really needed Spock to say anything—looking into those turbulent eyes was like looking into a slightly distorted reflection of his own soul.

Our minds are one.

Spock tugged lightly at his arm—almost like a child, Jim thought affectionately. Wordlessly he allowed himself to be pulled toward the bed. His aquiescence seemed to bolster Spock, and his face relaxed into a rare “almost-but-not-quite” smile. Jim lightly clamped down on his tongue with his teeth to prevent himself from making any wisecracks about tucking him in. Besides, he knew full well that the same could easily be said of him.

Moments later, after all the necessary lighting and room temperature adjustments had been made and all expendable outerwear had been relocated to the floor (instead of the laundry receptacle: another tease-worthy item he chose to overlook), Jim found himself nestled under the coverlets of the narrow bed, back-to-back with Spock. Vaguely he wondered how Bones would react if he learned of their adventures in insomnia treatment. He grinned in the darkness, imagining the doctor finding them in the bed together, like a couple of children at a pajama party, the characteristic “What the hell?!” expression etched on his face.

The Vulcan body heat emanating from Spock was a balm to his still-tender body; he pressed his back close to Spock's, enjoying the thermal benefits he unwittingly provided. This was easily the warmest he'd felt since beaming back aboard the Enterprise—not even the excesses of brandy had been able to stave of the chills as effectively. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that he was once again secured under his sleeping furs with Miramanee in the Earth Lodge, listening to the dull crackling of the bonfire.

Except that it was not Miramanee stretched out beside him.

A fresh arrow of grief pierced him and he shuddered involuntarily.

Miramanee's face swam before his mind's eye—still beautiful, but slightly out of focus. He swallowed hard in a futile effort to banish the lump that had abruptly formed in his throat. Would there ever be a time in his life when every feature of his bride's countenance, every gesture and expression, would no longer be branded into his memory? For someone who held no belief in the supernatural, it was amazing how Spock held an almost sorceror-like hold on his thoughts...would his raven-haired priestess have that same power?

He didn't know what was more troubling: the thought that he would even ask that question of himself, or the thought that he might already know the answer.

Despite his many appearances in dreams over the last two months, it was undeniable (logically so, he thought ruefully), that it was Spock who was the reality now and Miramanee the elusive dream.

Miramanee was gone—her body resting on a planet to which he would never return, bereaved by a people to which he would never again belong, widowed by a man he could no longer be.

 _Let her go._

His shield of Spock-resentment completely obliterated, he could feel the sorrow rushing freely to the surface, pulsing from the core of his being. He cursed inwardly when he felt the first threatening sting in his eyes. Not now! All week long he had managed to keep his tears at bay; must they decide to make their grand debut while he was occupying the same bed as a Vulcan?

But heedless of any propriety, his grief continued to swell, pounding through him so fiercely that his very fingertips throbbed. Before he could rein it in, a strangled sob escaped him, shattering the silence in the room. Spock shifted slightly beside him.

“Captain?” The concern in that silky voice threatened to accelerate the detonation of his composure.

He didn't answer.

Please, Spock; just go to sleep already.

He burrowed his face into the mattress to stifle the noise of his breathing, which insisted on coming out in ragged gasps. He gritted his teeth in determination. He would not give in to his emotions...he must not give in to his emotions. He may as well have tried to stop an over-inflated balloon from popping. Another renegade sob emerged from his throat.

A thermal pair of arms engulfed him. Spock gently rolled him over, bringing their silhouetted faces within inches of each other. He rested his forehead lightly against Jim's, cradling the back of his head as if he were an infant.

“Jim...”

And Jim was undone.

His own shields reduced to a mass of rubble, all he could do was clutch desperately at Spock, as if letting go would plunge him headlong into an endless chasm from which he would never emerge. Deep, wracking sobs gripped his body, shaking him with a violence he had never experienced. Securing his arms tightly around him, Spock pulled him as close to his body as he could without crushing him, burying his face in his hair.

“I grieve with thee,” he whispered.

For what felt like an eternity he clung to his First Officer, suspended in a realm where nothing existed save for the onslaught of his grief and the warmth of Spock's hands on his back as they caressed him, gliding freely over the contours of his shoulders and spine, stroking his hair. Amidst the sound of his own broken sobbing, he could hear Spock murmuring to him in Vulcan. The hushed voice, thick with unaccustomed tenderness, washed over him, gently coaxing the tears from his eyes. They rode the crest of his anguish in tandem, clinging relentlessly to one another, until every possible tear had been wrung from him and he lay limp in Spock's arms. The side of his face pressed against Spock's, he could feel a dampness on the Vulcan's cheeks that mingled with his own.

It was another eternity before either of them spoke.

“Captain?” Spock's voice sounded strangely diminished.

“Mmm?”

His hand travelled to Jim's face, brushing his cheekbone with his middle and index finger. Jim heard an audible intake of breath. After another lengthy pause, he spoke.

“Would you prefer it if I addressed you as Kirok?” Trembling fingers rested lightly against the meld points on his face.

Choking back the second wave of tears that threatened to assail him, Jim brushed the hand aside. Blindly he reached in the darkness for his Vulcan—the man who, like a god, had taken away one life with his mind and had restored another with his heart.

“My name is Jim,” he insisted. Grasping Spock's face in his hands, he brought their lips together in a brief kiss—a seal of promise for the distant reality that awaited them. Their bodies and minds entwined, they drifted into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
